His Father's Back
by Eirian Erisdar
Summary: His first memory was of his father's back. All his life, Soren only ever wanted one thing - his father's love. Only his father could grant it, and yet, Viren did not.


**A/N: **All his life, Soren only ever wanted one thing. Only his father could give it to him. And yet - Viren did not.

A quick fanfic since I finished season 2 of _The Dragon Prince_ today! I'm glad to spend a couple minutes on this since _Waiting in the Quiet,_ my other tdp fanfic, has longer chapters and will take a little longer to update in my hectic schedule. I have final _final_ exams for med school in three weeks so any chapters for The Silent Song will be after that, too! Thanks for your patience everyone!

* * *

**_His Father's Back_**

_Eirian Erisdar_

* * *

_His first memory was of his father's back._

For the most part, the memory was a blurred, vague thing in the depths of Soren's mind; the flash of gold-black tunics flapping behind his chubby knees and his new wood-carved sword in his hand, the raw-throated, echoing yell of his childhood battle-cry.

He must have been - what, four? Claudia had been walking properly for a while by then but just growing sure-footed enough to run in earnest, so that must have been about right.

Claudia.

Yes, that was right - Soren's first memory was not only of his father's back. It was of his father's back and _Claudia._

But no, no. That wasn't good enough of an explanation.

It was -

-Soren remembered the grain of the small wooden hilt under his fingers and the praise of his first sword-master ringing in his ears, and he had run as fast as his little feet in their new training boots could, up to his parents' tower to show his father what he had learnt.

It was a starburst of golden light, the sword - how every word from the sword-master seemed to flow down to Soren's fingers, and the rough wooden blade clasped in his chubby fingers obeyed him.

But when he hurled his tiny body against the heavy wood door of his father's study, hollering at the the top of his lungs for his father to come see - he saw instead his father's sable-coated form sat on the low chair by the fire, back towards the door, with a small, black-skirted form in his lap - Claudia.

From where Soren skidded to a stop on the carpet, he could only see the edge of her smock and one of her stubby pigtails - but that was not what halted him in his tracks.

It was the glow of violet flame flickering from her fingers.

And Soren's father, with the sharpness of his silver-lined coat cut in sharp silhouette by the violet-red flames of the hearth and his daughter's magic, bent his head and laughed.

It was a low, delighted thing - one of fatherly pride.

And Soren couldn't-

He couldn't remember, in this memory of his young, four-year-old mind, when his father had ever laughed so for him.

But he remembered what he did next.

He had dropped his precious training sword onto the carpet - the carpet with the insignia of the uneven towers of Katolis - and stepped forward to share in the wonder and pride of his sister's talent.

Soren had a brilliant little sister.

And when he picked up his sword again the uneven towers of Katolis had stared back at him, like he and Claudia standing side-by-side, her hand in his and wide smiles on their faces; but it was not until he was much older that he realised which tower he truly was.

* * *

In a way, that memory was a beginning, and an ending.

Soren took to the way of the sword like a - what was that term, a fish to water? No, no, that sounded awfully plain. He took to the way of the sword like a banther to the prowl. Yes. That was better.

And so while he spent hour after hour, day after day, week after week and month after month until time bled into years on the training fields with a sword in his hand, Claudia took to their father's study and the secrets there.

Soren didn't resent it. He was good at the sword.

And Claudia was good at dark magic.

By the time Soren was eight years old, their roles had been so firmly established that he did not realise the implications until dinner one evening, when Soren pushed away his fourth helping of jelly-tarts and was struck by a rare moment of astute observation (he would be the first to admit he wasn't much of an astute, or observation-y, person).

Claudia spoke with their father in speech Soren couldn't understand, sometimes. Not a different language per se - but a way of connecting to the world and seeing it through purple-veiled eyes and whispered spells. Soren could speak with his father all he liked, but their conversations always held a somewhat similar quality - after all, there were only so many variations of _What did you do today, Son? _and _Sword-training again, Dad. I did so-and-so formation perfectly._

Viren would nod, not unkindly, but without any true interest.

But if Soren were to ask _What did you and Claudia do today, s_uddenly a light would spark in his father's eyes, and he would start speaking of enchantments and experiments beyond Soren's comprehension, and Claudia would chew too fast on her next mouthful just so she could join in their father's words-

It was better, at least, when their mother was still there. Soren would turn to her and she would have another jelly-tart ready for him, and a smile.

She didn't understand his love for the sword and for battle, either. But she listened.

Then came the time when Soren and Claudia had lain awake in their rooms too often in the past year listening to their parents' arguments, and the day came when he was brought in after his morning training to find his family together in the main room of their quarters.

Soren remembers details about that meeting to this day - small things like the hard set of his father's shoulders as he stared into the fire and the careful distance his mother put between them as she turned away from her husband and told Soren and Claudia that their world, as they knew it, was ending.

No, she hadn't said _that._ Not exactly.

But she might as well have.

And then Viren had turned and looked down at his children, his back straight and the gleam of his sceptre at his side, and told them they would have to choose.

Claudia's green eyes - so wide, so hungry for knowledge and so precious that Soren already knew by then that he would die ten times over to protect her - had started to grow damp.

And Soren, looking between his the harshness of Viren's jaw and the grieving determination in his mother's eyes and the catastrophic flood that was about to well up over the dam of his sister's eyelids, chose.

He chose what he wanted most in he world.

His father's love.

His mother had looked at his father, then - a look of understanding, more put-together and calm than any Soren had seen between his parents for a long while.

Claudia should stay with Soren and their father, his mother had said. Claudia needed her brother and he needed her.

Then their mother packed her bags, and was gone the next morning.

Soren had woken, gone to the kitchens, and eaten the largest breakfast he could; porridge and sweet tarts and eggs and bacon and sausages until his belly was tight under his leather training armour.

And then when he walked onto the training fields and turned his sword into woven lightning and his footwork to wind.

His swordmaster was all praise.

Soren looked up, chest heaving, sweat dripping off his chin, and saw a flash of black and purple in a tower window.

Once he might have raced up the stairs to that tower to show his father his new accomplishment.

He did not, now.

* * *

Soren didn't want to do it.

Callum might have been a clown with a blade and Ezran a few too many years younger for Soren to find many shared interests, but they were the princes and had been counted in Soren's circle of friends for as long as anyone could remember.

Some part of him shivered as he recalled at the vows he had taken as one of the youngest members of the Crownguard: the vow to protect the crown of Katolis and its heirs to his dying breath.

So why-

Why would his father order him to kill the princes?

Soren knew that his father's intellect was unparalleled across the five kingdoms. There was not a moment that he was not proud to say _My father is Lord Viren; _in fact, he looked forward to the day when he could be equally proud to say _My sister is Lady Claudia._

It was his father.

His father must have a reason.

No matter the sick churning in Soren's gut as Ezran's laughter faded down the line or the heaviness in his chest, he would do it.

Maybe if he did, his father would finally look him in the eye and tell him he was proud of him.

_I'm proud of you, Soren._

Oh, how he longed to-

The dragon.

The crack of the boulder meeting his neck was louder than anything Soren had ever heard.

He couldn't breathe.

And then he discovered he could, but then he couldn't- couldn't move.

He screamed for Claudia.

He screamed, because he had seen this happen before, to soldiers thrown from horses and struck with a fated blow on the battlefield, and he knew that only magic would save him.

And later, laying on the hospital bed with his head in a brace and his limbs nerveless and _not there_, he found himself putting words together as he never had before. It was not often that he found himself staying still for a long enough period to truly _think. _And now that is all he could do.

So he did.

He was…glad. He was glad that he couldn't move, even if it meant never feeling the sing of steel under his fingertips again.

Because he had done all he could for his dad's mission, and now he couldn't do any more.

_The princes were safe._

He had fulfilled his vows as a Crownguard.

Heat rose in this throat, threatened to wring tears of his eyes, and Soren squeezed them shut and sought words.

How many syllables were there in a haiku?

_Dragon smash boy_

_Say the good words now_

_They light the hearts of other people._

Hmm. Not bad. Perhaps…perhaps there was a career to be had in poetry.

All the same, it would probably be best to run it by Claudia first.

* * *

Claudia didn't like it.

Soren couldn't turn his head to properly watch the doctors dragging her out through the smashed glass and mess she had made, but he could hear her well enough:

"_He can't be like this. He can't even count syllables!" _Door, slamming closed.

Then silence.

Ah well, baby steps.

Soren closed his eyes. How many syllables in a haiku? Five, wasn't it, seven, then five again?

And then suddenly-

_Welcome back, my son._

_I'm so proud of what you've done._

_I love you, Soren._

An impossibility.

Soren's cheeks and temples grew wet below his closed eyes, but there was nobody there to dry them for him.

And he would never be able to do so himself again.

* * *

But he had a sister.

A brilliant, _brilliant_ sister.

When her magic lanced from her fingertips and pierced his chest, Soren recalled, in the midst of the screaming and the flame and the lightning, something important.

His father had forgotten his birthday once - Soren's birthday was something oft-overlooked due to its proximity to King Harrow's, and one year Viren had forgotten his son's birthday entirely.

But when Soren had sat at dinner that night, morosely stuffing himself (Viren had been busy with an experiment and did not present himself for dinner) Claudia had come up to him and wrapped her arms around him.

And Soren had been comforted.

Then his eyes opened and the purple starburst of magic faded and he felt _every single broken bone and bloody scratch all at once, _and Soren knew, over his joy-filled blabbering and flailing, that _he loved his sister so much and he needed to thank her-_

He looked at her.

And stopped.

"Clauds? Are…you okay?"

She raised her head, black eyes bleeding into their normal green; but they were framed on one side by a strip of white in her hair that had not been there before.

Her breath came like gusts in a storm. "You're going to be better now. That's all that matters."

And Soren, looking at her, knew it meant she loved him as much as he loved her.

His baby sister.

They took the steps down carefully, one at a time.

Soren had spent most of the time revelling in the return of movement to his limbs and not thinking about their father at all, but when Claudia showed him the dragon horn it sparked that goofy streak in him again.

Words came to him of their own volition.

"_Failed missions, mad dad," _he mused.

"_But dragon horn means magic._

_Maybe dad not mad?"_

Claudia laughed so hard in her delight that she knocked him over.

Soren smiled as she helped him up, and pushed the one other haiku he had thought up but never said out of his mind.

He loved his baby sister. That was enough.

**END**

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Thanks for reading, everyone! I'll be sure to update my WIPs after exams!

Cross-posted to tumblr at eirianerisdar dot tumblr dot com. I've got lots of fic there!


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